Black Heart
by Inclined
Summary: Narcissa's inheritance could mean a troubled future for the Order, but the real trouble emerges from the repercussions of the past that Molly and Narcissa shared. Will their rekindling relationship survive the rise of the Dark Lord? Will their children?
1. Chapter 1

A magnificent breakfast feast had just been delivered to the table by one of the house elves. A variety of fruit colored the table so brightly that the steam rising from the hotcakes seemed almost to glow. At one end of the vibrant assortment, a set of pale blue eyes wandered disinterestedly over the food, the tablecloth, and seemed to completely ignore the other two pairs of eyes at the table. Indeed, Narcissa Malfoy had made herself no more of a presence in the dining room than a statue would have.

Across the table, Narcissa's husband Lucius sat stiffly, eating his food in silence. Even seated and with his mouth full, Lucius was a commanding presence. Something about the neatness of his long, blonde hair, the incline of his chin, the carved harshness of his eyes—these things reminded Narcissa that breakfast would go by much more smoothly if she kept her mouth shut.

Her son, Draco, on the other hand, seemed to be searching intently for something to say. His eyes were exactly the same grey color that distinguished Lucius's eyes, but the similarity ended there. The grey of Lucius's eyes was cold and biting, his eyes were the kind that people were afraid to look directly into, but would always remember. People wanted to look into Draco's eyes, though. They still bore a sort of inquisitive innocence which, though muted with age, never left them completely. Narcissa watched these eyes as they glowed hopefully and Draco began to speak.

"This is the best breakfast I've had this summer, father," he began. "We should really compliment the help for their impeccable work today." At that moment, a house elf entered the dining hall with another plate of hotcakes.

"Well, elf, I daresay it's taken you long enough to cook a suitable breakfast for my family. I'm glad that you've finally prepared something edible." Lucius shot Draco a sideways glance. "Mediocrity may be acceptable in some homes, Elf, but not here."

Narcissa stared diligently at her plate, ignoring the hasty, desperate apologies of the house elf, and flat replies of her husband. She pushed her plate away from her softly; though she did not actually look, she could see Draco's eyes faltering, having failed in their quest for some kind of friendliness or reassurance.

"Aren't you hungry, Narcissa?" Lucius asked her irritably.

"How could I be," she said slowly, "when this mediocre food is all that is offered to me?"

"Those, Draco, are the standards a Malfoy should hold." Lucius twisted his lips upward into a vindictive smile. "Never settle for less than the absolute best. And if you think you've found what is best, either seize it for your own, or elevate your standards. In the case of this breakfast, there is certainly better."

"Yes, Father," Draco muttered.

_Never settle for less_… Narcissa turned the words over bitterly in her head. _It's terribly ironic, Lucius,_ she thought, _that the day I married you, the day I became a Malfoy, I settled for less_.

"Mistress Malfoy." She hadn't even heard the butler approach the table, but he now stood at her side.

"What is it, Gregor?"

"Owl for you, m'lady."

Narcissa raised her thin eyebrows in mild surprise. "Thank you, Gregor." He placed a scroll of parchment on the table before Narcissa, and exited. Her eyes darted about the page as she skimmed through its text, and her forehead began to crease.

"What is it, Narcissa?" Lucius asked in a tone of voice which managed to make even his suspicion sound arrogant. His wife's lips parted slightly, but she did not respond. He leaned in closer, peering down at her plate. On the glittering silver, he could see the words "Ministry of Magic: Department of Deeds and Trusts" reflected clearly. "Narcissa."

The woman's heart had begun to pound. She dropped the letter into her lap. Lucius didn't know. The place wouldn't still be standing if he'd known. He couldn't know, it—

"Narcissa. Why did the Department of Deeds and Trusts send you an owl?"

"Well, Lucius, as I believe you know, a relative of mine recently passed away."

"A certain Sirius Black, perhaps?"

"Of course. Which means that the Ministry has been sorting out the destination of his inheritance, as Black had no heir. The tradition of the Black family has been to keep the Black fortune in the Black family. His things are to be passed on to the closest living relative."

"Don't tell me—"

"Me. I'm the next of kin."

"Oh, you've got to be joking, Narcissa. You'll reply to the Ministry, letting them know you won't be accepting."

Narcissa's lips tightened. "Lucius, you know I can't do that."

"Why the hell not?" He snapped, standing.

"Because, as a Black—"

"You're not a Black, you're a Malfoy!" Lucius' was a fearful figure to behold. He didn't quite look furious; his fury was too well hidden behind his metallic eyes, but twenty-five years had taught Narcissa that the fury was there. It had built up quickly, and could erupt with equal ease. Narcissa proceeded cautiously.

"Of course I'm a Malfoy," she said sweetly. "But I have an obligation to my blood. Lucius, it's just a few galleons and a piece of property. It's not like they'd even be noticed amongst all our assets. It's from a pure line, and at least I know in my hands, it will remain in good repute." She reached out, and deftly took a lock of hair from behind her husband's ears, wove it through her fingers, and whispered, "toujours pur, yes?"

Lucius hesitated for a moment. "Of course," he said. "Always."

"I know you hated him. He was a traitor to his name, and his blood."

"His inheritance belonged to you long before he died. He wasn't worthy," Lucius snarled as he swallowed the bait his wife had dangled before him.

"Well, it will be in good hands now, then, won't it?" Narcissa gave a sly grin, which her husband returned.

"Very well then. Make the necessary reply to the Ministry. Draco and I have some important business to take care of today." With a swish of his cloak, Lucius was halfway out the door, Draco trailing after him.

In the empty dining hall, Narcissa buried her face in her hands. _He could just as easily have said no,_ she thought heavily, then cleared her mind of the thought. _It doesn't matter. I'm fine now. But they'll have to know. I'll have to tell them. And with both Lucius and Draco gone… it will have to be today._ Her mind was swimming. The stifled emotions of twenty-nine years brought anxious tears to her eyes, tears that only strengthened her resolve. When she vanished from Malfoy Manor, she knew she would not be welcome at the destination that had been inked onto a deed in her name. She made her way to Number 12 Grimmauld Place anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Thirty-five years ago, Narcissa had stood on these steps with her mother, fidgeting wildly, her heart pounding inside her ribcage. She had been so excited, getting to play with her cousin Sirius—hide and go seek in Grimmauld Place was a different kind of game, and Sirius was a worthy adversary. But Sirius was gone, and so was the mansion's magic. The grey stone that once seemed so elegant looked ashen and worn, and Narcissa felt that she must have made a similar transformation from the morning to this afternoon.

Now she had the burden of Grimmauld Place's every brick weighing on her shoulders. Under normal circumstances, it would have meant little: another piece of property to add to her personal collection. But circumstances were not normal. A war was beginning, and she had just inherited a building that housed the very people her husband most wanted dead. He did not know she knew, and she was sure the people on the other side of the dank, grey walls had no idea she knew. But the latter would come to that knowledge quickly. They knew Sirius was dead, and they knew that none of them had legal right to remain at Grimmauld Place. It wouldn't be long before they realized that they were being delivered into the hands of Narcissa Malfoy, and she could only imagine the sort of reaction that would illicit.

Narcissa suddenly realized that she was holding the heavy iron door-knocker in her hand. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what would happen if she let go—the sound of the knock echoing through the old building… who would appear at the door? Would it be the one person who might be able to convince the others to trust her? More likely, it would not. She'd come face to face with some unfamiliar wizard who would recognize her. "I just want you to know that your secret is safe with me. You're still safe here." That's what she would say, would they listen?

She would have to find out. The door-knocker slipped from her fingertips, and collided with the wood of the door like a clap of thunder, and she waited.

* * *

The people on the other side of the mansion's walls had believed that they had no legal right to remain in Grimmauld Place. In fact, they had planned a meeting for that morning, to discuss options for future headquarters. But at the meeting now, relocation was not being discussed. At dawn, a solitary owl had delivered a message to The Order, scribbled in Dumbledore's familiar handwriting. "You are safe. Don't move." While no one was about the challenge Dumbledore's words, security measures were being discussed fervently. The lack of detail in Dumbledore's letter had not convinced anyone to abandon their concerns completely. 

"Five words, is that really all he had time for?" Bill asked.

"It was brief, but one owl should be all we need to stop our worrying for now," Arthur tried to reason.

Molly Weasley felt her stomach turn; her mind drifted from the conversation, and thought of the piece of parchment folded in her pocket. One owl was all Dumbledore had sent, but the owl had carried two messages, one specifically for her. "You'll have to answer the door." She watched blankly as the mouths of the other members of the Order were animated with speech, though she only caught bits and pieces of what was being said. Blinking hard, Molly rose and opened the cabinet behind her. She had just retrieved a glass and was beginning to pour some water when a sound like rolling thunder signaled to everyone that someone was at the door. Lupin began to push himself away from the table.

"No need, Remus," Molly stopped him, "I can get it." She tried to mask her uncertainty with a warm smile. Her efforts must have been successful, because Lupin sat back down, and Molly made her way through the hall towards the front door. She paused for a moment in front of the dark wood. There was a nervous feeling in her stomach. Why was she the one that needed to answer this door? Her hand reached quickly for the latch on the door as she brushed her hesitations aside. As Molly pushed the door open, a stream of daylight lit the room more and more brightly. Then, suddenly, the light stopped spreading.

Through the other side of the cracked door, a flash of cloak colored the space so that Narcissa could not immediately make out who had answered the door. Then the color settled against the curves of a witch in combat position. Narcissa's eyes traced the curves with her eyes. She knew without even having to glance at the face that Molly had answered the door, and she was thankful. She opened her mouth, knowing she needed to speak, but the lines she had written for herself in her head had been forgotten.

Molly's body was drawn taut. With suspicion, she eyed Narcissa's hands, and though part of her was waiting for Narcissa's hands to draw their wand, she knew deep down that that moment would not come. She allowed her eyes to abandon their preliminary defenses and wander up Narcissa's arm—even now she could imagine the comfort of that arm resting around her waist. _No, a different arm,_ she told herself, _a younger arm, a loving arm of a girl who has been gone for almost thirty years._ She tried to shake her thoughts away, realizing the length of the time that had passed since she had opened the door. She looked towards Narcissa's eyes and felt her face began to flush bright red as she realized that Narcissa's eyes were traveling up and down her body, drinking her in. Molly swallowed hard, and felt the hand that was holding her wand begin to tremble slightly.

The subtle movement did not go unnoticed by the other woman, who finally managed to slide words from her open mouth. "Molly," she began, her voice half a whisper, "your hands are shaking."

"Narcissa…" When Molly had begun to reply, her voice had been unguarded and caressing. But the sweetness inflected in the sound of the name escaping her lips made her catch her breath. _This isn't Narcissa Black, it's Narcissa Malfoy_, she thought to herself. That was all it took to ice her emotions and chill her next words. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Narcissa tore her eyes away from Molly and remembered what she was doing on the steps of Grimmauld Place. She stared intently at one of the stones of the doorframe. "I'm here because… I know," she stuttered, "I know about The Order. And Sirius is dead, and, well, now this place is mine. I just wanted you to know that…I just want you to know that your secret is safe with me. You're still safe here."

Molly had not moved from the combat position, and she was trying to draw her mind into the same stance. "Why should I believe a word of this?"

Narcissa reached into her robes to pull out the deed that she'd folded neatly in her pocket. Her fingers had just brushed the parchment. But it was not the grainy texture of the parchment that met her fingertips; she felt fire scorch briefly up her arm, and she let out a yelp that was answered by what must have not been the first cry of the "Expelliarmus" spell to have been directed toward her. She drew her singed fingertips from her robe and saw that two wizards had joined Molly. Half-hidden by Molly's unkempt red curls were Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks.

"Expel—"

"STOP IT!" Narcissa cried, her voice tinged with panic. "Good Lord, you can see both of my hands!"

"That's enough, Tonks, she's right," said Lupin, lowering his wand. Tonks lowered hers as well, though still clenched it readily, half-raised, but its threat less imminent.

With wands no longer pointed at her, Narcissa regained her usual cockiness. Out of habit she felt her voice begin to drawl as she said sarcastically, "Really, Nymphadora, is this any way to greet your Auntie Narcissa?"

Lupin, ever calm, smiled politely at this, and spoke over the string of obscenities Tonks had begun to sputter under her breath. "This visit would be easier for all of us, Narcissa, if you would refrain from continued employment of such charming humor." Lupin opened his mouth, but was interrupted by the sound of more footsteps entering the room, and a sudden shout.

"Expelliarmus!"

The spell crashed against Narcissa's fingertips again, and finding no purpose, sent another deep burning sensation even deeper through her arm. "What, the bloody hell is wrong with you people?" Narcissa howled. She very nearly reached for her wand in defense against the overzealous spells but the searing pain in her arm prevented her from doing so; she did not need four wizards shooting disarming spells her way again. _Would I hear the spell shouted in four voices? Might it only be three?_

"It's alright, Arthur," Molly said quietly. Arthur, too, lowered his wand, but moved close enough to Narcissa that she could see his eyes scrutinizing her, searching for flaws.

"Before Mrs. Malfoy is knocked unconscious by our attempts to disarm her, I think we'd best eliminate the need for further repetition of these spells. Narcissa, things will go much more smoothly with your wand in our possession," Lupin said authoritatively.

Narcissa eyed the crowd of wizards before her coldly. She glared at Arthur's eyes, which were clouded with presumptuous suspicion. Lupin's were skillfully empty, her niece's, on the other hand, filled with undeniable contempt. Her nose began to crinkle with the conceited distrust that spoilt her lovely face—until, of course, her eyes met Molly's.

When Narcissa had met Molly for the first time, they had both been first-years at Hogwarts. Narcissa had been preceded by the reputation of her two older sisters. "Dark as their name, those girls are," students had whispered, and Narcissa had every intention of living up to the expectations of her peers. So when Narcissa Black put on the Sorting Hat, the other students waited quietly for the hat to bellow, "Slytherin!" or else, call no familiar name at all, and send her into a domain of darkness all her own. The hat did neither. "Hufflepuff!" it had declared surely, almost before touching her head. She had sat, frozen on the stool in complete disbelief. She left the hat on her head, waiting for it to correct itself until Professor McGonagall had yanked it off, and shooed her off the stool. Narcissa stared back at the hat incredulously as the students began to murmur softly, and then she made a decision. She turned her nose into the air, and began to make her way towards the Slytherin table. _I'll just sit where I belong, hat or no hat,_ she had thought pompously—until she caught the eyes of her sisters, forbidding her to come any nearer. The words of the Sorting Hat meant little to her, but to be denied her place by her blood—her steps slowed halfway to the table. The faces there were marked with contempt, disgust. She had disgraced herself by thinking herself so capable surpassing her sisters in darkness; she had disgraced them by doing anything less.

She sat in a somber daze at the Hufflepuff table, crowded by people who had been noted for their loyalty and friendship, though she found nothing of the sort offered to her. She stared hatefully at her hands in her lap as the number of first-years waiting to be sorted dwindled, scarcely aware of the names being called, including "Prewett, Molly." But it seemed "Prewett, Molly" would not be ignored by Narcissa Black. She scooted onto the bench, seating herself next to Narcissa, and genially took one of the hands from Narcissa's lap. "Goodness, I'm sure relieved that's over," she had breathed, punctuating the statement with a good-natured giggle, releasing Narcissa's hand.

Narcissa wanted to whip around and punch the girl, whoever she was. The Black girls were not to be touched, they were not to be the objects of frivolous affection, they were not like some mudblood Hufflepuffs that… and then she remembered that she was a Hufflepuff, and her blood began to boil with new fury. Her nose curled wickedly, she turned to face the girl—but whatever malicious fantasies had dashed through her mind only a moment before were halted. Molly Prewett had two neat red plaits framing her plump, freckled face, which was turned slightly to one side, regarding Narcissa. What struck Narcissa, though, was the purity in the clear brown eyes of that innocent face. They regarded her, plainly, as a potential friend. In Molly's eyes, she saw hope.

Thirty years later, her coldness was melted by those eyes, the memory materialized before her. But she was torn from the timeless gaze of Molly's eyes by Lupin's voice. "Molly, take her wand."

"What?"

"Bizarre as this situation is, we have to follow procedure," Lupin reminded her, then directed his attention toward Narcissa. "Don't move, Narcissa. Molly is going to take your wand. It's procedure, not a threat. Don't be insulted, please, if you truly mean us no harm, then you should understand our methods."

It was Molly, not Narcissa, who opened her mouth to begin to protest, but Narcissa silenced her by announcing with a convincing amount of confidence, "It's in my left waist pocket… but right next to a dung-bomb, so be careful."

No one laughed. Everyone in the room could feel the tension rising as Molly took a step toward Narcissa. Arthur, Lupin, Tonks—they felt the tension arising from an offended Narcissa Malfoy, and from the concealed nerves of Molly Weasley, preparing to perform a risky task. Only Narcissa and Molly understood the true source of the tension. Narcissa felt it heat her body as Molly's hand slid through the gap in her robes. Molly felt it as she remembered having once repeated the same action with so much more grace and tenderness. She brushed Narcissa's stomach, her heart racing even though the fabric of Narcissa's dress separated flesh from flesh. For a moment, Narcissa thought that someone had cast yet another disarming charm, and she squinted her eyes shut, realizing a moment later that the heat was not emanating from her fingers, but from her hips, where Molly was fumbling for Narcissa's wand. She bit her lip, trying to hide as much of her face as possible behind her curtain of blonde hair, grateful that the exposed parts of her face were still hidden behind Molly's bushy hair.

"Here it is," Molly maundered, pulling away from Narcissa, a slight blush coloring her cheeks for the second time since Narcissa had arrived.

"Well then, Narcissa, I suppose we should invite you in to chat about the reason you're here," Lupin said.

Narcissa cleared her throat, regaining her composure. "It's not necessary. The reason I'm here is in my breast pocket. Do you mind if I reach in and get it myself?"

Lupin hesitated, by Molly spoke up. "It's fine."

_She trusts me,_ Narcissa thought—though her inner pessimist responded faithfully, _She__ doesn't want to touch you again_.

"Molly, are you sure—" Arthur started.

"I think we should let Sirius's cousin explain for herself." Molly's words caused the group to hush, and Narcissa realized that they were all beginning to understand the purpose of her visit. She withdrew the deed from her pocket, and held it out for the others to see.

"This is Dumbledore's writing on the deed," Lupin announced.

"It's the only way she could have turned up here at Grimmauld Place," Molly reminded everyone.

Narcissa saw the looks of confusion begin to spread across the faces of the wizards before her, and decided to intervene. "Look, the reason I'm here isn't to flaunt this in your faces. I just wanted you to know you were safe here, still."

"How did you know we were here to begin with?" demanded Arthur.

The woman's voice was accented with wariness. "There's a portrait I keep whose occupant sometimes visits this house." Eyes widened at this revelation. "Look," Narcissa said defensively, "I've known your whereabouts for over a year now and I've kept them concealed. I know it's hard to believe that I know about the Order and that I own its headquarters, but I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize your safety."

"Why should we believe you?" Tonks asked incredulously.

"You don't have to," Narcissa replied, eyeing Molly, who had suddenly become enamored with a piece of dirt beneath her fingernail. Suddenly, Narcissa felt very tired. "I—I just came here to tell you what I knew before you found out on your own. I don't want to argue with you all. I've told you the truth, take it or leave it. Now if you don't mind, being the unwelcome guest at this party is starting to wear on me, and I'd like to go." She turned, and began to advance towards Molly. She held out the deed, and gestured toward the hand that held Molly's wand. "If we could just make a little trade here, I'll be on my way."

Molly took the deed hastily from Narcissa's hand and slid it into her robes next to the other piece of parchment marked with Dumbledore's writing. Narcissa reached to take her wand, but reached a little further than necessary at the last second, and let her fingers linger against Molly's as she slowly pulled the wand away. "I'm glad you were the one to answer the door," she breathed in a puff of air that could have been mistaken for a sigh. Molly looked up, trying to think of how to respond, and caught a glimpse of two blue flashes just before Narcissa disapparated, her pale eyes vanishing with her.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly continued to stare at the empty space where Narcissa had stood only a moment before. Though Molly's face was expressionless, her mind was racing into overdrive examining the encounter. Reason greeted thoughts of Narcissa Malfoy first, inspecting them from every angle, trying to decide whether or not the Order was still safe at Grimmauld Place. _There must be clues_, Molly thought, analyzing each word, each movement of Narcissa's eyes, the shapes her lips took as she spoke. _Her soft, yielding lips…_ and reason wavered as old feelings began creep into her mind, taking the place of objectivity. She needed to be alone, she needed time to sort out her thoughts—but the members of the Order needed her, too.

"We might as well go back to the kitchen and try to sort this new bit of information out," Lupin said. Molly hadn't realized how much her heartbeat had quickened until she heard it pounding over Lupin's words. She swallowed hard, ignoring the lump at the back of her throat, and nodded in agreement.

She tried not to flinch as Arthur put his arm around her shoulder and guided her back into the kitchen. "I know that wasn't easy for you," he whispered into her ear. Her heart sank at his sweet naivety.

_Your comfort barely scratches the surface, Arthur,_ she thought dismally. But she gave a weak smile, and sat beside him at the table, and let him hold her hand as the discussion began.

* * *

"What the hell was that all about?" Ron asked, dropping a long, fleshy-colored string. Harry, Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny responded with silence, their only thought having just been voiced by Ron. "I mean, what do they mean, letting Malfoy's mom in the house?" 

"You heard what Lupin said," muttered Harry, tossing his extendable ear on the floor next to Ron's. "Malfoy's mum has the deed to Grimmauld Place. We're under her roof."

Ron's freckles appeared to grow darker on his face as the blood drained from it. "I knew they'd been worried about staying here, not knowing who the rightful owner is and all. My God, we're screwed, aren't we?"

"I'm not sure we are," Hermione mused. "No one who enters Grimmauld Place can do so without seeing the address written in Dumbledore's writing."

Harry fingered the bridge of his glasses thoughtfully. "Maybe she didn't need Dumbledore's writing," he said, remembering the tapestry that connected Narcissa and Sirius as cousins. "I'm sure she's been to Grimmauld Place before."

"It wouldn't make a difference how many times she'd been here when she was younger, Harry," Hermione reminded him. "After Dumbledore charmed this place, even Sirius couldn't have found it without seeing the address in Dumbledore's writing. But that doesn't matter anyway, you heard what Lupin said: the deed was made out in Dumbledore's writing. She was here because the Order wanted her here."

"Yes, the shower of disarming charms was definitely indicative of that," Fred laughed.

"No better way to say 'welcome to our humble abode,'" George said with a devilish grin, then, "or I guess, 'welcome to _your_ humble abode', eh?"

"Whatever the circumstances, your mother seemed calm enough," Hermione said pointedly.

"Are you kidding, Hermione?" Ginny cried. "It's bad enough to have the wife of one of the most infamous death-eaters alive show up here, but geez, it's Narcissa, you know? Poor Mum."

"Of course," Ron snapped. "She's just as slimy as Lucius and Draco, which is why I don't understand—"

"Well she wasn't that slimy when she and mum were friends."

"What?" gasped Fred, George, and Ron in unison. Hermione and Harry gaped at Ginny, who was looking at the rest of the group in surprise.

"Our mum was friends with Narcissa MALFOY?" Ron's voice grew louder with each word, as though he hoped the volume of his voice could erase what Ginny had just said.

"Well, no," Ginny made a little noise of exasperation. "She was friends with Narcissa _Black_. The reason she never talks about her is precisely because she became Narcissa Malfoy. I thought you guys knew that."

"Uh, this is definitely news to us," said George.

"How d'you know about this, anyway?" Fred asked.

"Well, before I went to Hogwarts, mum and I went through pictures. Some of them were pretty recent, of you guys and stuff. She had some of Percy's first year, and Bill's first quidditch game, and things like that. Then she had some from all the way back when she was at Hogwarts. We looked at pictures of Dad, too, but more than anyone we kept seeing this blonde girl, she was just in a bunch of the pictures with mum. She told me that the girl had been one of her best friends, Narcissa Black."

"And their friendship ended once Narcissa married Lucius?" Hermione inquired.

"Exactly," said Ginny. "But like I said, she doesn't like to talk about it. So don't tell her I told you, okay? I thought you guys knew."

"Of course, Ginny, we won't say a thing," Harry assured her. Ginny smiled gratefully.

"Your poor mum," Hermione murmured.

"No kidding." Ron shook his head. "I can't believe she was friends with Narcissa, either."

Hermione began to make irritated gestures. "That's not what I mean, Ron. I just feel bad for you mother because what happened today must have been really hard on her. I mean, even if Narcissa did marry Lucius, at some point, your mum and her were friends. They probably trusted each other until Narcissa broke that trust by marrying a death eater. But still, now Narcissa comes back asking the Order to trust her? Imagine the position your mother is in right now!"

"Well, doesn't seem like a very tough position to me," Fred shrugged.

"Yeah," chimed George. "Once a traitor, always a traitor, that's that."

"That's not true," Ginny said thoughtfully. "What about Snape?"

"Usually, little sister, putting someone in the same category as Severus Snape does not add merit to their character," George nodded.

"This is no exception," Fred agreed. "Well kiddies, have fun down here. We're off to the attic."

"What are you going to do in the attic?" Ron asked.

"We can't very well set off our new firecrackers from here, can we?" George grinned slyly. With a pop, the twins were gone.

"Oi, they should be off to pack," grumbled Ron. "I imagine we won't be staying here much longer."

"I wouldn't be so sure, Ron," Hermione sang. "If Narcissa showed up here, then we know Dumbledore wanted her here."

"Well then when he gets here, mum can talk some sense into him, since she apparently knows first hand what a creep Narcissa is!"

"Do you really believe that?" Hermione threw her hands in the air. "Ron, imagine this for a second. It's our last year, and I tell you I'm going to marry Draco Malfoy."

"Hermione, do not even joke like that."

"I'm trying to be serious. Listen, I tell you I'm marrying Draco Malfoy, we have a huge fight, and we don't speak for, say, ten years. Now, out of the blue, I show up on your front door, and ask you to trust me. What then?"

"This is ridiculous, Hermione, you're talking about something that would never happen."

"I think the point she's trying to make is that at one time your mum probably said the same thing about Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy," Harry said.

"Exactly." Hermione smiled.

There was a long pause. Finally, Ron sputtered, "Well, it's not like it matters anyway. Either they won't trust her and we'll have to leave, or they'll decide to trust her but never really be able to do it completely and we'll leave just to be safe anyway."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"They'll have to make a decision sometime tonight, Harry said sensibly. "I guess we'll just find out when the meeting is over."

* * *

_Molly felt her throat tighten through the silence, and then Narcissa laughed good-naturedly. "Your parents want you to marry Arthur Weasley? Oh, lord!" she cried, dissolving into giggles again. Molly looked down into Narcissa's eyes, still crinkled with laughter. The girl's head was resting in her lap, her silvery-blonde hair pooling around her shoulders, Molly's fingers woven through it. Through Molly's eyes, the girl's face was blurring. She looked away._

_ "Arthur has been my friend for a long time," Molly said, her quivering voice failing to conceal her disappointment, "and you know how old-fashioned my family is."_

_ The playful wrinkles at the corners of Narcissa's eyes disappeared with her smile, replaced by lines of bewilderment and denial. Molly squinted her eyes shut, and felt Narcissa sitting up slowly, her fine hair brushing her chest and shoulders as she shifted upward until her eyes were inches away from Molly's, so close that she could see the tiniest droplets of water beginning to emerge at the base of the girl's eyelashes._

_ "You're joking," Narcissa's voice practically begged. Yet her tone said that regardless of whether or not Molly spoke, she would know Molly's response. Molly shook her head, and the first teardrop spilled from her eye and into her empty lap. "No," Narcissa breathed, feeling her own eyes begin to sting, "No, Molly, no…" She brushed her lips against Molly's cheek with a soft kiss. A vague taste of saltiness met her tongue, the salt of tears, though she wasn't sure whose. She hugged Molly desperately, repeating the same words over and over until Molly broke her chant._

_ "I don't have a choice. At least it's someone I know will treat me well."_

_ "What are you talking about? You always have a choice. I don't—Molly, you can't marry him! You don't love him!"_

_ "I know that," Molly said in a voice so resigned that Narcissa was suddenly nauseous. "But," she continued evenly, "it's what I have to do."_

_ "Molly—no, don't say that. You—we could run away. We could go somewhere together, it would be—"_

_ "Stop it," Molly shushed firmly, bringing a finger delicately over Narcissa's lips. "Please, don't make this any harder than it is. We've got a month before we graduate, and my parents are already planning the wedding for a few weeks after that. Let's cherish this time, alright?"_

_ Molly had known that Narcissa wanted to protest. Even more than that, though, Narcissa wanted Molly to be happy, even if it meant conceding to the wishes Molly had just expressed. Molly was slightly surprised when Narcissa took her hand, and stared into her eyes, and whispered plainly, "if you want me to be happy for you, I will."_

_ "Please. It would just be easier." It was not an expression of indifference. It was a plea, a product of long nights that Molly must have spent thinking alone. Alone—the word resounded in Narcissa's mind, but she took a deep breath and ignored it._

_ "Then," Narcissa's voice cracked, "then I'm happy for you." She pulled Molly tightly against her, her face buried in Molly's red curls. Molly could feel Narcissa's body heaving in noiseless sobs against hers. She had simply held on tightly, and tried not to do the same. After what had seemed like hours of tearful relapses, punctuated by endearing words, Narcissa leaned toward Molly for one last kiss. She moved slowly, memorizing every part of Molly's sweet mouth. At the time, Molly had kissed her in return almost thankfully. When two people can kiss like this, she thought vaguely, surely everything must be okay. It wasn't until the next day, when their lips met again, that Molly realized that it was not okay and probably never would be again. She had spent seven years with this girl—her best friend, her lover—seven years had melted the ice that surrounded Narcissa and earned her friendship in the girl's heart, and love in the woman's. Overnight, Narcissa had frozen again. A matter of hours had reduced her movements to a mere imitation of something that had once been both meaningful and natural._

_By the end of the week Molly finally realized that it was not some kind of temporary grief that Narcissa was caught up in. When she touched Narcissa, it was like touching Narcissa's hand for the first time in the Great Hall, after they'd been sorted: like touching a shell void of spirit. It worried her, and now she didn't know how to reach out and wash away the pain because this time she was the one who had put it there._

_Teachers and students alike watched the two girls walking through the corridors together, sitting next to each other—but they had both become voiceless. Their bodies moved without passion, their eyes were listless. Rumors began to spread to account for the new situation; surely the best friends had had a row—some very elaborate stories began to circulate, in fact, but none came close to the truth. Finally, barely two weeks before the term was to end, indiscernible shouts were heard in the Hufflepuff common room, shouts that came from the girls' dormitories. The content of this last argument was what the students finally accepted as the reason for the fall of the girls' friendship. It was the engagement: the engagement of Narcissa Black to Lucius Malfoy._

_The listlessness of Molly's eyes had been pushed aside by disbelief so desperate that it could have been mistaken for rage. "He has no heart," she yelled in frustration._

_"Maybe I don't either."_

_"You can't try to tell me that!" Molly exclaimed, edging closer to Narcissa. "I've seen it!" she reached out slowly, and pressed her palm longingly against the other girl's chest. "I've felt it."_

_Narcissa brushed the hand away with forced casualness. "You chose your loyalty with your family; I've chosen it with mine. I have always been and always will be a Black to the core. I have a Black heart."_

_"You're lying to yourself, Narcissa."_

_"I can't be lying, Molly, because I'm talking to you, and I would never, ever lie to you!" Her voice shook with conviction, but faltered as it went on. "You have to understand that anything short of marrying Lucius Malfoy would knock me off the Black family tree. Ever since I've been at Hogwarts, I've done nothing but disgrace my family. I have to do whatever it takes to prove my position as a Black. My family is all I have left."_

_"That's not true. You'll always have me."_

_"I can't share you with Arthur Weasley. Lucius Malfoy is the best thing I have going for me right now." Narcissa tried to raise her head with the conceit that had been so inherent in her posture seven years ago. She maintained an awkward position the best she could, her eyes glued to the floor. "Can't you just be happy for me?"_

_It was an echo from the announcement of her own engagement, and it stung. But Arthur and Lucius were two different people; Narcissa wasn't just finding a neutral niche for herself, she was walking into self-destruction. Couldn't she see that? "I've never lied to you either, Narcissa, and I'm not about to start now. No. I can't."_

_"Then don't expect an invitation to my wedding. I won't expect one to yours."_

_"Narcissa, please don't be this way, even if we can't be together, you're still my best friend."_

_Narcissa smiled weakly. She took a step back toward the window, distancing herself from Molly. Her topaz-blue eyes gleamed briefly with the last genuine smile that would cross her face for years. "I could never stop loving you, Molly. No matter what happens, that will always be true." Then she turned away, facing the window. Her body was an inky shadow against the light of the sun. Molly watched the unmoving silhouette for several minutes before quietly exiting the room. She slid her back down the closed door until she was seated on the floor and drew her legs inward against the body. It was over._

"Molly." The voice slammed her unforgivingly back to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, the eyes of the present members of the Order glued to her expectantly. "Molly, do you think we can trust Narcissa? Do you think we're safe at Grimmauld Place?"

_"I would never, ever lie to you."_

"Yes," Molly heard herself say.

"Molly, dear, do you really think—"

"Her decision is hers, Arthur," Lupin said. "And a lot of good this meeting had done us. We've reached a tie: six in favor of remaining at Grimmauld Place, six against."

"There are plenty of members who aren't here," Tonks said with a wave of her hand. "Why don't we just wait for them?"

"Because that's not how we've decided to do things," Lupin replied patiently. "Well procedure is, incase of a tie—"

"A tie? Ah, I had really hoped that wouldn't happen," creaked a voice that had just entered the room. Twelve heads turned to the voice's source, a tall old wizard in a deep purple cloak that was bibbed by his long white beard. He peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles and smiled serenely. "Is this tie with or without my vote?"

"Welcome back, Dumbledore," Lupin nodded with subtle relief. "No, we have not yet considered your vote. Might you break the tie?"

"It would be an honor," Dumbledore said gleefully, helping himself to an empty chair at the table. "Might I ask—do we have any croissants?"

The rest of the Order stared at him blankly. He stared back, then reached swiftly into his robes, withdrawing his wand. With a quick flick of the wrist, a delectable looking pastry appeared on a delicately patterned saucer. Dumbledore nibbled the pastry contentedly for a moment, and then realized that twelve sets of eyes were still watching him avidly.

"Oh, pardon me," the old wizard said, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin that had suddenly materialized in his lap. "Where are my manners? Would anyone else care for a croissant?"

"Perhaps," Tonks began tentatively, "we would be more interested in a snack after you submitted your vote?"

"Oh! An apology is in order on my part, then," Dumbledore bowed his head politely. "I thought surely that Narcissa Malfoy would have been here by now."

"She has been here, sir," resonated the deep voice of Kinsley Shacklebolt. "That's part of the reason we felt the vote was so urgent."

"Well, if she's already been here, then you needn't look at me with such suspense. I've made arrangements for us to remain at Grimmauld Place. I did, after all, sign the deed into her name, didn't she show you that?"

Nervous glances were exchanged around the group. Arthur cleared his throat. "I believe many of us are concerned because even if you did sign that deed into her name, she's still the wife of one of Voldemort's most revered followers."

Dumbledore nodded respectfully. "Yes, this is true, but let us consider the predicament we have found ourselves in. Grimmauld Place was under the ownership of Sirius Black until his death. The residence, as we suspected, is enchanted through a blood charm so that it can be willed only to living members of Black heritage. While our connections with the Ministry might allow us to choose the new owner of the mansion, the mansion's own magic limits our choices severely."

"Wait," Tonks interrupted. "My mum was a Black. Why couldn't I have inherited Grimmauld Place?"

"Well, first of all, there are still members of the generation before you alive, and their names take precedence. But even when they are all deceased, Nymphadora, you will not inherit this house. Your mother's decision to marry against her family's wishes was something her parents never forgave. They couldn't sever the blood connection running between them, but they were able to curse her connection to their legal assets. In other words, my dear, I could have signed the house over to your mother, but it would have resulted in, more or less, the house's self-destruction."

"Well, that's just… ridiculous!" Tonks finally exclaimed.

"Yes, it is that. Although really quite clever. Nonetheless, unfortunate for us." Dumbledore took another bite of his pastry. "So, our choice was really between Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Like trying to choose the lesser of two evils," Shacklebolt chuckled grimly.

"Well, it's obvious that we couldn't let Grimmauld Place fall into the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. After the years she spent in Azkaban it's clear where her loyalties lie. Narcissa, though… we have very little information on her. She's married to Lucius Malfoy, but other than that, she's done very little to draw negative attention to herself."

A murmur of protest signaled that there were members of the group who disagreed. Dumbledore's responses, affirmed by six other members of the group, gradually led to a reluctant acceptance of the decision to take Narcissa's word.

"Well," Mad-Eye Moody growled, "we can choose to trust that Narcissa won't give away our whereabouts, but I still think it makes more sense to change locations anyway. Just incase."

"Moody," Dumbledore reasoned, "if we did that, what would be the point of trusting her?" There was a long silence, and then Dumbledore rose from the table, signaling the end of the meeting. Molly followed suit, immediately trying to distract herself from the day's events.

"Will you be staying for dinner, Dumbledore?" she asked, beginning to muse about what to prepare for supper.

"I hate to pass up any opportunity to partake in one of your delicious dinners, but I seemed to have filled myself up with all of those croissants."

Molly nodded bemusedly. "Have a nice evening, then, sir."

"Actually, Molly, before I go, there's something you need to know."

The woman arched her eyebrows and tilted her head to one side. "What is it?" she questioned softly.

"Lucius Malfoy is well acquainted with power, and he confirms his own power through control. For example, Lucius is aware of every bit piece of owl post that enters and leaves Malfoy Manor."

"But that means—" Molly gasped.

"No," Dumbledore quieted her, "he didn't see the message sent to Narcissa today. It came at an inopportune time; he couldn't read it for himself, and I imagine when he inquired as to the contents of Narcissa's letter, he was not bothered by her answer. Lucius wouldn't be able to imagine a Narcissa capable of independent thought."

A pang of loss stabbed deep within Molly for a moment; she stifled an uncharacteristic urge to hit something. Dumbledore's bright eyes darted in quick assessment of the room, then he leaned closer to Molly.

"What I really mean by telling you this, Molly," Dumbledore divulged, "is that it would be extremely dangerous for anyone from the Order to attempt to contact Narcissa Malfoy via owl post. But," his eyes were now sparkling behind his glasses, "no matter how closely Lucius Malfoy thinks he can monitor his Floo Network, we have the connections at the Ministry to assure that certain activity could be concealed."

Molly's brow furrowed. "Why would that ever be necessary?"

"Just keep that in mind if you ever need to make contact with your old friend." With a hint of a wink, Dumbledore spun around and exited the kitchen. Molly toyed with the idea of chasing after him, but knew trying to squeeze any more information would be futile. So, she walked over to the dark granite countertop and pressed her hands against the cool surface. _I have no reason to talk to her. We're trusting her to be silent, I'll just be silent, too. Hell, we've been silent for thirty years, it's not like this is any kind of change._ But the flood of feelings she had felt when Narcissa had touched her hand… something was changing.

Or maybe not enough had changed.

She folded her arms over the smooth counter, resting her head on her hands, allowing her thoughts try to sort themselves out. Eventually her head slid from her hands so that her cheek rested gently against the granite's surface. With her eyes closed, it was like a cold, perfectly smooth hand gently cupping her face. When she opened her eyes, though, there was only the polished rock, lifeless and empty. She felt a weary sadness leaden her heart at the thought, but couldn't quite understand why.


	4. Chapter 4

When Narcissa returned to Malfoy Manor she was relieved to find it empty. She moved dazedly to the master bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. She lay there for an hour like an unfinished work of art: fabric draped carelessly over a statue's body, carefully painted lips and eyelashes, marble skin that would look so real, but would feel so cold to the touch. Occasionally Narcissa opened her eyes—they, too, were like unfeeling stone.

She was so far from the seventeen year old girl she had been at Hogwarts, but tonight that past didn't seem so distant. The years had changed her features—her cheekbones were sharper, her eyes more deeply set… but her feelings for Molly had never really left. She had abandoned them, yes, but she had left them frozen in a part of her mind where they would be safe and untouched. All it had taken that day was the sight of Molly to thaw the feelings, and the brush of a hand to set them coursing through her veins again. And then there was Arthur, with his arms around Molly—the fresh memory of Molly's husband made the warm thoughts of the woman she loved burn like acid.

The sound of voices downstairs—the first sound she'd heard for hours—startled Narcissa out of her trance. _Lucius and Draco must be home_, she thought vaguely. She pulled her body heavily from its position on the bed, smoothed her robes, and began tracing her way towards the murmurs. She floated through the austere corridors; the voices were growing louder, though the words were still indiscernible. Then the voices stopped. The clicking of footsteps parting ways. The faraway sound of a heavy door swinging shut, and shortly thereafter, another doing the same.

_Lucius to his office_, Narcissa thought, _Draco to his room_. She turned right at the end of the hallway, and made her way to the third room on the left, with a door cracked open just barely. There were time when Draco did not like to be bothered, but when the door was open like this, Narcissa had learned that he secretly appreciated company. Narcissa peered around the doorframe and observed the figure within.

A long finger ran itself over a lock of hair so blonde, it was almost white. The hair rippled under the movement and fell as smoothly and evenly, a cascade of liquid gold. Narcissa smiled vainly at her son, her maternal pride swelling to see how her son resembled her. Draco regarded his own movement in the mirror with boredom. Eventually, he stepped away from the mirror so that it reflected his body completely: robes so dark that the cloth clung to his frame without shadow, an envelope of opaque black smoke. Proudly, Draco straightened the robes, so that with a quick flutter of darkness, the figure in the mirror was snapped into what Draco believed was a rather intimidating position. He glared down his nose and cast his arm out in a rehearsed dramatic motion. Several times he did this, modifying his movements each time until he began to tire of the ritual.

Draco stepped closer to the mirror, then. He undid the topmost buttons of his robes, exposing the pale skin of his chest against the unyielding blackness of his robes. He slid the cloth off of his shoulders, and looked skeptically in the mirror at the reflection of his arms. He stared for a long time, and then his lips began to curl upward into a satisfied smile. In the background, Narcissa's eyes glowed with a hint of amusement. At the beginning of the summer, Draco had accompanied his mother to a dinner at the Parkinson's. Sitting next to each other at dinner, they had both heard Mrs. Parkinson remark about the keen resemblance Draco bore to Narcissa, "with his mother's hair, and skin. Even his eyes—that stormy look—why, I believe he favors his mother far more than his father." "You're right," Mr. Parkinson had responded in a hush, "but I hope for his sake he fills out like his father, and soon. If his arms stay that scrawny, he'll be beaten up by next year's first-years."

That night when they returned home, Draco scrutinized his reflection, and was horrified to see that indeed, stretching from his torso were his mother's slim, feminine limbs. He stared into the mirror, his teenage-boy ego wounded deeply, mourning his girly arms. Angst claimed him completely, and he made a vow that he would not return to Hogwarts with such gimpy appendages.

Every day, Draco managed to find at least an hour to sneak away into the gardens with a broom and a large box. Contained in the box were a quaffle, a snitch, and a bludger. With fierce ambition, Draco released them all at once. In the time that followed, Draco engaged in a breathless battle with himself, playing keeper and chaser with the sporadically moving enchanted quaffle, playing beater to defend himself against the bludger that followed him around the field, and playing seeker, madly searching out of the corner of his eye for a meaningful flash of gold. Especially in his first few attempts, the feat had been nearly impossible, but Draco knew how to be a lot of people at once. So he grew stronger, and now in the mirror, he smiled at the earned shapeliness of his biceps and the strong curves of his forearm.

Narcissa smiled, too. She had seen him practicing in the gardens, she knew how hard he had worked. Seeing her son's self-satisfaction pleased her—the thought that her son could still have such normal worries made her worry less about the influence of his Malfoy upbringing. But as she watched him in the mirror, she saw the boyish grin vanish.

_If you succeed in performing your task, you will be awarded the Dark Mark. You will be the youngest of the Death Eaters, you will be of the most coveted of my followers._ The echo of the instructions he had received earlier that day from the Dark Lord prevented him from admiring his insignificant toned arms with such vanity any longer. Draco concentrated instead on a skull, a snake, the Dark Mark that was to soon tattoo his seamlessly pale forearm. It would be a startling contrast, like blood on snow.

Did he want it there? _Would I have chosen such a life if I had not been led to it?_Draco was forced to whip his robes back up over his body, and in a sudden violent movement he was gripped by a stabbing feeling of sickness. It was hate that had overcome him, and he did his best to separate himself from the inexplicable disgust and rage that had materialized in the heating of his blood. He knew it was hate; growing up as the son of Lucius Malfoy had left him well acquainted with that emotion. But part of Draco's infuriation now fueled itself by the fact that while hatred seemed to empower his father, it did not have the same effect on him. Draco's hatred turned itself inward, a misguided rage torn between self-destruction and self-preservation, Draco helpless to choose either.

Narcissa watched the transformation of her son's eyes: curiosity to pride, thoughtfulness to despair. She felt her body growing weary with helplessness. Her stomach began to leaden, and she edged away from the door. Seeing her son's bewildered, deluded form of undirected hate was agonizing. Draco might have felt hate, and he might not have known where it belonged, but Narcissa saw it and assigned it to herself. She strayed back to her own bedroom, and tried to find an easier place for her mind to rest. Tonight, watching her son would bring no sweet dreams.

* * *

Waves of the day's thoughts lapped against the shore of Narcissa's mind. She had hoped, vainly, that she might be able to rest on dry sand, but the tide was high and unforgiving. From within her curtained four-poster bed she could see the full moon glowing like a beacon in the fog, fog rising dimly from the ocean, Molly's waters behind Narcissa's eyelids. _The moon was full that first night we spent together. That night when she fell asleep in my bed, and I held her. When I thought she was beautiful, and I realized she smelled of honeysuckle and rosemary, and when I realized that I loved her, though I didn't know how deeply then._

"Narcissa, this is insane, it's absolutely freezing out here!"  
"Which is why we have to go out tonight, no one will expect students to sneak out on a night like this."

"So when we freeze to death out here, it will take them all the longer to find our bodies."

Narcissa tried to look sternly at Molly in reply, but giggled instead. "Come on," she said, taking the girl's hand. "It's November, and we might not have another chance."

"There will be chances in December. Or better yet, July."

"Molly, you know what I mean. There's no clouds, there's not any snow on the ground… if you get too cold, we can go back in. But honestly, I don't know how you've passed astronomy the last three years knowing as little as you do about the stars. Let's just go have a look."

Molly winced. Narcissa's voice was fervent with enthusiasm, and she knew that her better judgment was going to be ignored. She reached a hand reluctantly toward one of her braids, and began to free her hair from its tight weave.

"What're you doing?" Narcissa asked.

Molly sighed. "Unbraiding my hair. If we're going to be outside, I'm going to want my neck covered."

Narcissa beamed. "Let's go, then," she practically squealed. As soon as Molly's hands were free, she took one in her own and began galloping across the courtyard. Halfway to the quidditch pitch, the girls were panting little puffs of fog in the cool night, and Narcissa reached into her robes to pull out a blanket. Molly shivered as she laid it on the frosty grass.

"How do you know so much about stars, anyway?"

"Come lay down, and I'll show you." Molly scooted against Narcissa and tried to silence her chattering teeth. Narcissa wrapped one arm around her friend, and gestured toward the sky with the other. "The answer to your question is right… there!" she pointed with her wand. "Do you know what constellation that is?"

Molly's expression was blank. "Virgo?"

Narcissa squeezed Molly's arm with exasperation. "If we come back in May, your answer might be right. That constellation is Andromeda."

"Oh—your sister," Molly realized, "I'd always thought she was named after the evergreen, andromeda." Narcissa shook her head in amusement. "So your sister taught you the constellations?"

"She saw to it that I knew a map of the Northern sky before I knew my own address." Narcissa smiled fondly, lost briefly in thought. Molly's eyes strayed from Andromeda and searched the look in Narcissa's eyes. Wistfulness, numb sadness—her heart sank as she found these things in the grey rims of her friend's eyes. But when Narcissa turned and faced her, she saw that they suddenly conveyed a contemplative peacefulness. She nestled her face against Narcissa's shoulder. "Show me another," she whispered.

It was almost two hours before the girls snuck back into their dorms, cheeks rouged from the wind, and limbs stiff from the cold.

"I'd forgotten how cold it was until we got back inside," Molly whispered, so as not to wake the other sleeping girls.

Narcissa smiled serenely. "I'd forgotten how special stars can be," Narcissa said. "Thanks, Molly."

"Thank you," Molly grinned. "That was fun… we should do it again, you know. Except maybe when Virgo is out."

Soft laughter signaled Narcissa's assent. The girls changed quickly and crawled into their beds. The sheets on Narcissa's bed were just beginning to cocoon her heat when the sheets from Molly's began to rustle. "I'm still freezing," Molly hissed from her bed. More rustling. Then her voice was closer. "Narcissa, I'm so cold—can I sleep with you tonight?"

Narcissa rolled over drowsily and saw Molly in her pajamas, arms crossed fiercely in defense of her chill, looking nervous and hopeful and pleading. And suddenly Narcissa felt even warmer.

"Sure," she heard her voice say reassuringly. "Go grab your blanket, with yours and mine we'll be extra cozy."

Molly flashed back with a knit throw, tossed it over Narcissa's bedspread, and began to burrow under the covers. Her feet brushed across Narcissa's leg, and Narcissa nearly yelped. "Geez, Molly, you're not kidding. You feel like ice. Here," she pressed her warming toes against Molly's feet, trying to provide some kind of warmth. She pressed her body against Molly's back and gently massaged her arms, hoping the friction would warm Molly faster.

"Mmm," Molly sighed, "thank you."

Narcissa felt the skin of her arms prickle with goose bumps, though she didn't feel at all cold. As Molly drifted into a warm slumber, Narcissa became increasingly alert. The moon was nearly full, and though its light had not distracted from the stars earlier, it suddenly seemed bright and intrusive. Through wide open eyes, she absorbed the illuminated mess of red tangles that fell across Molly's shoulders. She traced up the subtle curve of Molly's hips, over her plush stomach, and to the gentle rising and falling of her chest, accompanied by soft sound of sleepy breaths. Leaning closer to Molly, Narcissa breathed in honeysuckle and rosemary, and closed her eyes.

Before Narcissa had come to school, her family had been her everything. But it's hard for an eleven-year-old girl to live up to a legacy of darkness as a Hufflepuff. It was hard for her to do much of anything under the watch of her two Slytherin sisters. Joy had been reduced to a vague sense of pleasure—she was not unhappy, but actually being happy? She wasn't that, either. She didn't know how to be.

Narcissa's eyes opened slowly, and she felt her heart flutter as Molly stirred slightly. She felt something welling inside her, and mistook it for resentment. How dare Molly make her…

_Happy.__ Does my family really make me happy? They make my life easier, for certain, but do they bring me joy?_

The feeling that was suddenly overwhelming her—it wasn't resentment. It was joy, the joy of caring about another person not because of expectation, but because of choice. Molly was her best friend, and when she was with her, she forgot about who she was supposed to be; at that moment, there was only Molly and herself. No scrutinizing eyes, no reputations. They were the only ones in Narcissa's bed tonight, _why should I bring images of my family to this scene, why should I let them disrupt this peace I have finally found?_

Narcissa let her hurt feelings dissolve away, leaving her vulnerable with unfamiliar contentment. She looked uncharacteristically delicate as she drifted to sleep alongside Molly, dreaming soothing dreams, a glimpse of a Mona Lisa smile peeking out behind a mess of red and silver hair.

* * *

Tonight there was only pale blonde; the silver strands clung damply to Narcissa's cheeks. 


	5. Chapter 5

Molly had her purse open, counting and recounting the gold and silver coins as the saleswitch totaled the teetering stack of books her four school-age children would need for the coming school year. Her count reaffirmed for the sixth time that she had exactly two hundred galleons.

"Your total is two hundred and fourteen galleons and 6 knuts."

"What?" Molly asked. "That isn't right, the total can't be more than two hundred galleons."

"I'm afraid that it is," she replied with absolutely no change in the tone of her voice.

Molly was thoughtful for a moment. "I don't have two hundred and fourteen galleons. If you just let me look, I can tell you how much each of those books is marked for." Molly blushed as she heard an irritated sigh in line behind her, and saw the expression on the check-out witch's face go flack with a lament for tedium. The witch heaved the bags of books she had just bundled back onto the counter and began to lay them out.

Off to one side, Molly spotted a leather-bound book that did not look familiar. The skin was the color of mahogany, with a tiny gold-leaf border inlay. The cover was glossy—too glossy.

"Oh, I—my apologies, I must have picked up a new copy of this one. Let me just—" Molly flipped the book open to see the title page. In ornate script on the first page was written, "Sapphic Verses." Molly almost dropped the book.

"I—this isn't mine." She handed it firmly back to the checkout witch, who accepted it disinterestedly and put it on the shelf behind her.

"Your total is one hundred ninety six galleons, 2 sickles, and 1 knut."

Molly paid hastily, grabbed the books, and rushed for the door, her eyes darting frantically around her. _Where is she?_ Molly wondered if she was watching her right now. _Where the bloody hell is Narcissa?_

Narcissa held her cup of tea tightly between her hands. She had watched Draco bolt up ahead of her and then swiftly return. She knew what he was going to say before he'd even gotten back.

"Fifteen minutes, that's all I need, please?" Draco pleaded.

"Your father is supposed to take you," Narcissa replied flatly.

"I just want to look. Please. Fifteen minutes, that's it."

Mostly, Narcissa just wanted to leave, wanted to be gone from Diagon Alley before she had to answer to her juvenile antics. Still, part of her would not have minded the chance at the attention. She gave her son a look of exasperated surrender. "If you're not out in fifteen minutes, I'm still leaving…"

Draco stifled a cheer. "Thank you," he hissed. "Fifteen minutes, that's it."

Narcissa nodded disinterestedly and found a nook near the window. She leaned back, settling into the shallow crevice just enough to be shielded from the wind. Scanning the crowd for anyone of interest, she was disappointed to find no one who caught her eye. She gripped the tea tightly for a moment, then brushed her heated hand against her icy cheek. She loved the exaggerated warmth against her cold skin. She continued to scan the crowd, relaxing a little as she took a gingerly sip of her tea. Then a smile played on her lips as she swallowed and her insides warmed.

Amidst the crowd on the other side of the street she saw a harangued looking redhead shoo no fewer than six school age children into a used robe shop, and continue down the street, flustered even alone. The redhead's eyes skipped over faces in the crowd and Narcissa felt her hold on her cup tighten. _Is she looking for another Weasley or…_ Narcissa wondered. She barely had time to finish the though before the redhead's eyes caught hers and narrowed. She did not break the gaze as she came stomping nearer and nearer to Narcissa. At first Narcissa had to stifle a laugh, but Molly's eyes were blazing with warning. Narcissa tossed her tea in a neat arc into a nearby receptacle just as Molly reached her. The cup left her hands not a moment too soon; Molly grabbed Narcissa by the arm, plucking her forcefully from her nook, and swung her around the corner into a nondescript alley. She flung Narcissa around so that they were facing each other.

"You—" Molly began angrily. She was interrupted by a bellow of laughter from the blonde.

"I—ha, oh, I'm sorry, Molly, but the look—"

"It's NOT funny," Molly said through gritted teeth.

"You're right, it wasn't. It's wasn't," Narcissa conceded, "but YOU are. Honestly, the look on your face—"

"What the hell has gotten into you? What if someone had seen?"

"What if someone had seen what? That a random book was in your bag?"

"You know what kind of people read books like that."

"What? Poetry?" Narcissa smiled and glanced quickly at the redhead's lips, then shrugged. Please, Molly, no one cares."

"What if someone had seen YOU put that book in my bag?"

"Who cares! What do you think would have happened? Do you really think people would have assumed something?" Narcissa gave a playfully triumphant sneer. "You're acting paranoid."

Molly straightened her arms at her side, drawing her body into a taut line that slanted her line of vision into Narcissa's in a way that, even though she was looking up at the blonde, made her stature threatening.

"It's a funny thing," Molly spat, "I have been exceptionally _paranoid_ over the last few years about things that your family might slip into my bags."

There is a feeling people sometimes get—when asking an old friend how their mother has been, only to find out that she died some years back. There is a lingering awkwardness mingled with embarrassment in what is usually a defensive, apologetic 'I'm sorry, I didn't know.' This was the feeling that came over Narcissa—except that she _did _know, and every fiber of her consciousness was now berating her carelessness. She could not say a word, and the mood of the silence that hung in the air was complimented by the soft but cuttingly cold wind that breathed through the alley.

Molly could sense Narcissa's humiliated devastation. No amount of compassion could compel her to retract what she had said, but she thought she might at least change the direction of her anger. The severity of her posture lessened. "Besides, we haven't spoken in decades, and now you're pulling little pranks like we're sixteen and--"

Narcissa tried to stand up for her feelings. "I know we haven't talked, Molly, but that doesn't mean I don't think about you."

"And this is how you show that you're thinking of me? Stalking me and sneaking 'Sapphic Verses' into my shopping bag?"

Narcissa's cheeks throbbed into a blush as warm blood pounded to the cold surface of her skin. Molly was right. She had acted on an immature impulse. What she had done was neither romantic nor cryptic, deep nor amusing. In fact, given their families' history, it was downright inappropriate. "I am sorry if I embarrassed you," the blonde drawled. "It was not my intention. It seems my intentions are unclear to both of us now. I am even more sorry that I did not consider how the past actions of Lucius might have shaded my little joke. My apologies." Narcissa swiftly wrapped her coat more tightly around her lean body and whisked herself away.

Bewildered, Molly began to call out, but stopped, and instead watched Narcissa's silky hair sway as the woman retreated further and further away, lulling its typical unsatisfactory farewell.

Draco darted through the store, hastily slinging a pair of green quidditch shorts and a speedily selected "Caerphilly Catapults" t-shirt over his shoulder. He veered through the crowded aisles to the rear of the store, and halted nervously before the saleswitch at the entrance to the dressing rooms.

"Er, two, please," said Draco.

The witch handed him a number and did not look over her shoulder to see which room he chose. He went as far from her as possible to the second door from the end on the left hand side. He knocked softly.

"Yes?" a female voice rang.

"Pansy? It's me."

The door swung open, and two tiny arms frantically wrapped themselves around Draco's neck, sending him practically tumbling into the dressing room. A tiny heeled foot kicked the door closed.

"Hey, I—"

"Shut up," Pansy breathed, slamming her mouth into Draco's, fingers crawling their way beneath Draco's shirt and across his bare back.

"Pansy, please," Draco finally managed to interject between kisses. "I don't have much time. I need to talk to you."

Pansy skeptically unwound her limbs from Draco's body. "Talk?" She made a pouty face until she realized that Draco was serious. She sighed and sat down on the tiny stool in the fitting room, trying to look more interested than she was. "Okay, what is it?"

"My father took me to meet with the Dark, uh… the Dark Lord recently."

"Already?" Now Pansy was sincerely interested. "I thought you had more time."

"I thought I did, too. He wants me to accept the Dark Mark."

Pansy stared at Draco, surprised. To take the Dark Mark was an honor, a sacred rite, and Draco had always been one of the most wary of the young followers. "You would be the youngest death eater… why so soon?"

Draco brought his hand to the back of his head and ruffled his fine hair nervously. "Pansy… you have to promise not to tell anyone."

Pansy came to her own defense indignantly. "When have I ever—" Draco interrupted her by narrowing his eyes and tilting his head to one side skeptically. "Well…" Pansy cleared her throat. "Yes. Of course, for you, I promise."

Draco slung himself onto the small stool in the fitting room. He took both of Pansy's hands in his, pulling her close, though he did not look at her. When he spoke, his voice was low and strained.

"The Dark Lord doesn't trust me. I don't think."

"Draco, you underestimate yourself."

"Just listen—please."

Pansy's face was completely void of her signature cattiness. She knelt to his level solemnly. "Go on."

"What I think is that the other followers are more eager, but not as a reliable. Take Blaise Zambini. He worries sometimes, but deep down, he wouldn't hesitate to follow any of the Dark Lord's instructions, no matter how… well, violent, for instance. But either out of fear of not impressing him or overeager desire to, the most delicate matters couldn't be trusted to Blaise. He would be too hasty.

"The Dark Lord doesn't trust _me_, per se. But he trusts my sense of responsibility. People think a lot of things about me Pansy, you know that. One of the most cherished of his followers is my Auntie Bella. My father has served the Dark Lord faithfully since his second rise to power. My mom hardly ever talks to Andromeda, and would never even speak her name around my father…

"Pansy, do you remember the night before we went to Hogwarts?"

"Of course." Pansy had been a lucky, wealthy girl with a fireplace in her own room, and even luckier that it was connected to the Floo network. She recalled an ashy ten year old spinning into her room one night. "I couldn't believe you snuck out. I was too nervous to sleep that night anyway, I was actually pretty happy that you showed up. We talked for a long time that night."

"Do you remember what my biggest fear was that night?"

Pansy gave a knowing smile. "You were sooooo worried that you would be sorted into Hufflepuff like your mum."

"Do you remember why?"

"You were scared you didn't have enough 'ambition,' that you didn't have the edge. You thought that if you could describe yourself in one word, it would be _loyal_."

"I am loyal. I love my family very much. I want them to feel proud of me, and I want to bring them honor."

"I know that Draco," Pansy said tenderly, tracing one of her fingers over a pale vein on the back of his hand. "You've been that way for as long as I can remember."

"The Dark Lord knows that, too. That's the real reason he's chosen me." Draco hesitated, and Pansy waited. Draco bit his lip, and then with a voice barely audible said, "He wants me to get rid of Harry Potter."

Pansy's eyes widened, and her pulse began to race. "Get rid of?" Draco did not look at her. "Oh… Draco, that is a huge honor indeed." Draco continued to stare at the floor. Pansy was scared at the real gravity of the situation, and thus, maintained a façade of nonchalance and devotion to the Dark Lord. "Have you made your decision?"

Draco blinked hard and stood up. He kissed Pansy's hands one at a time and released them. "I need to go, my mother is waiting."

"Whoa, hang on, answer me," Pansy demanded, her voice tinged with panic, though she did not know which decision would distress her more.

Draco paused in the doorway, his back to Pansy. He turned his head down slightly over his shoulder. "I don't think there is a decision to make." And he was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

_Writer's Note: Can you tell what my favorite parts to write are? More to come in this section, and soon. This was hastily edited and posted in a fit of inspiration—feel free to leave feedback of any kind. Happy reading!_

"Molly," Kingsley's deep voice bellowed, "there is something outside for you. It's a box. There isn't a return address on it. I assume it's safe, since the owl must have been recognized, but do you want to…"

"Of course," Molly said, drying her hands on a dishtowel, "I'm coming right now." She followed Kingsley to the heavy front doors and found a small parcel sitting on the doorstep. On the package, in script she couldn't help but recognize, was written "Molly." No address. Just her name. Molly bristled slightly. She hadn't seen Narcissa, or even heard from her at all since their encounter in Diagon Alley months prior. An unaddressed parcel suggested that the package hadn't been delivered by an owl at all. Had Narcissa been here?

Molly shook herself. "Oh, I know who sent this," Molly said. Kingsley looked at her expectantly. Molly's voice cracked with a hint of panic. "Oh—Ginny needed some mending done, you know how it is."

Kingsley looked miffed. "Since when does Ginny call you by your first name?"

Molly gave a nervous too-loud laugh. "Teenagers, eh?"

Kingsley stared at Molly for a moment, then let his mouth slowly open into a wide grin, and his laughter escaped his throat like a cannon. "Better you than me, Molly. I've seen a lot of things in my time, but I wouldn't even know where to begin with raising a teenager." He scooped up the package and ushered Molly inside. "I'll finish up in here," Kingsley gestured toward the kitchen. "You see what your daughter needs."

Molly chuckled gratefully. "Thanks, Kingsley, I'll be back down in a bit." She took the package, which was surprisingly heavy for being so small (and certainly for being "mending," Molly thought, wincing). She made her way through the hallways until she reached the room she shared with Arthur. She sat on the bed and sliced open the box with her wand. Inside, there were four little cylindrical packages, each wrapped in velvety cloth, one silver, one black, one blue, one red. Inscribed at the bottom of the box were tiny luminous arrows which glittered left to right. Molly assumed that was the order that they were meant to be opened.

She picked up the silver satchel first, and unpacked a slender glass cone that was twisted and textured like a maypole wound with lace. Molly examined it uncertainly, and then set it gently on her nightstand. When she did, the texture of the glass melted away. The little winds of lace unfurled themselves around a delicate pole into three shallow bowls, progressively smaller as they rose to the top. The glass was so thin that the little bowls looked almost like neatly divided bubbles. Molly breathed in soft appreciation of the artistry that had created such a magical piece.

Molly still was not clear on what exactly the beautiful thing was for, though. She decided to check the second satchel. She reached in and felt the contents in her hand—something glassy that fit perfectly into her palm. As she withdrew the gift, she bit her lip. The glass was shaped thinly around its mercurial contents, and was in the form of a heart—a tiny organ crafted with such detail that Molly threatened it would begin to beat in her hand. What was she to do with such a thing? She set it into the bottom-most bowl that the silver package had produced. As she did so, a glimmer pumped from the bottom of the bowl through the rod that connected the other small bowls, all the way to the top of the rod, which Molly noticed was pointed and hooked like a small arrow.

Molly took the silvery heart back into her hand. Is this what Narcissa had meant? Gently, she brought the heart against the tip of the arrow. There was the sound of an exhale as the glass around the heart evaporated and its silver contents trickled from the first bowl to the second, and then rested at the third. Narcissa had sent her a fountain. Molly could not help her smile at the beauty of the original (though admittedly uncalled for) gift. She leaned over the fountain to examine the pool of silvery liquid in the bottom bowl, and felt herself tumble downward.

The moment the falling sensation began, Molly realized that the silver substance had been a pensieve, and now here she was inside a memory that Narcissa had sent to her. She peered around. She was surprised by the vividness of her surroundings—the details of each stalk of grain, and the smears of clouds across the sky. Memories were not usually so clear. Her own memory of this same evening was not nearly so vivid, but she knew exactly what was about to happen.

Two girls came bounding through the grain. Molly gave a modest grin. There was Narcissa, svelte even at sixteen, and there she saw herself as well. She had not remembered her hair being so red, or her face glowing the way it had, and did not know if it was because of her youth or because of Narcissa's memory that she appeared that way. She listened to the conversations of two girls telling stories and confiding little hopes, holding hands innocently, giggling and thinking. It was around dusk, and the darkness came quickly. They were in the country, and the light of the stars began to prick the sky in thousands of tiny glimmers.

"Can you imagine creating something as epically marvelous as all this?" Molly breathed. "Hey, look—Draco!" she exclaimed, pointing to the sky and elbowing Narcissa in the ribs. Narcissa squirmed.

"You've come a long way from the little second year who thought my sister was named after a tree."

"You've come a long way from the stuffy little first year that wouldn't talk to anyone," Molly teased.

"Right," Narcissa drawled sarcastically, "now I'm about to be the stuffy sixth year who won't talk to anyone except Molly Prewett."

"That's not true. You just think you are much darker than you are."

"You're right, I've been softened up. I eat outside now." Narcissa looked pointedly at Molly.

"Gah!" shouted Molly, throwing her hands in the air and batting at Narcissa. "Who is sixteen and has never had a barbeque?"

"Blacks don't have barbeques, they have outdoor events. With food cooked by chefs, and tables with tablecloths." Narcissa's voice was laced with humor, but only barely. Molly peered towards Narcissa, looking for other indications of the girl's true feelings. She didn't have to look hard, Narcissa threw them out into the open. "Molly, the barbeque was great. I can't believe how nice your family is to me. Even when I don't know how to behave at a barbeque."

"You're my best friend and they have adored you for years."

"I don't always know how to act around them. I don't know what social graces are appropriate."

"I know. You get all stiff around my family sometimes, but you don't have to worry. Just be you. You always are in the end. By the way, I was impressed that you agreed to play quidditch with my brothers."

"How could I resist their taunts?" Narcissa laughed.

Molly felt at ease, and honest. "You're a great player. I still don't know why you dropped the team."

"Come on, Molly," Narcissa rolled her eyes. "My family doesn't want the "Black" name engraved on a Hufflepuff trophy." Molly's eyes flashed with ire, and she started to interject, just like Narcissa knew she would, so Narcissa was quick to continue. "Besides, I wanted to have more time to sculpt."

"Well," Molly admitted, "I can't argue with that. You were talented at quidditch, but you're a gifted artist."

Narcissa didn't say anything. She felt uneasy when Molly got this way. She appreciated her reassurances, but it felt too good being loved by Molly sometimes, and Narcissa did not want to name the feelings she got at moments like this, when Molly was too caring, or when they had spent too long laughing together.

Molly read nothing into the silence, and continued to share her stream of thought. "You know, my brothers noticed how good you were at quidditch." Molly took a moment to sort her thoughts, then stammered, "Gideon especially." Narcissa turned her head suddenly towards Molly. They made eye contact and Molly nodded. "He likes you a lot."

"Narcissa turned her head back up and stared at the sky. "That is a bad, bad idea for everyone involved."

"Hey, this is my brother you're talking about!" Molly gave Narcissa a friendly punch in the arm, but Narcissa did not move. Molly looked away. "Bad idea… why?"

A funny thing happened at that moment--the memory began to blur. The landscape that had been so crisp fell out of focus, and dissolved into patches like an impressionist painting. Beneath a dark-washed sky there were only brush-textured patches of dark brown, the grain catching very little moonlight. Molly stepped closer into the pensieve, lying down near the two girls. She smiled at her younger self, and leaned close. The detail of the landscape had faded even dimmer now; and though the sparkle of the stars was gone, Narcissa clearly remembered the constellations of freckles that were beginning to fade from the teenage Molly's face. There were her brown eyes, clearer then, wider, and framed with lashes that had been much darker then. People aren't supposed to forget what they look like, and Molly had pictures from her youth for certain. But seeing herself in Narcissa's memory was much different. There was sincerity in her existence there. To be remembered in that way kindled a powerful feeling within her.

She watched the rise and fall of Narcissa's chest as her breathing quickened. She couldn't see the girl's eyes—she didn't want to. She hadn't seen them that night either. She had just lain there wondering, dimly hopeful, nervous.

Narcissa was turning all of her possible answers over in her head. _Family wouldn't approve. It would make things weird. He deserves a nicer girl. He doesn't really know me. I'm not really interested._ "I don't think I could do that, Molly." They were lying side by side, their hands entwined, the only part of their bodies touching. Molly imagined the feeling of Narcissa's hand growing limp and ever so slightly damp. "I love you."

Molly remembered the jolt in her stomach and the shot at calmness. "Well, I love you, too…" More was supposed to be said. _What does that have to do with my brother? _for instance. But even before Narcissa made herself the braver one, Molly knew what was coming. And that was why she had said nothing more.

"No, Molly, I… I really love you." Narcissa sat up. She tucked her knees under her chin, letting her long, soft hair fall around her like a thinly protective curtain. She withdrew her hand from Molly's and hugged her legs close to her chest. She closed her eyes and waited.

The young Molly was a little stunned, though not completely surprised. When she was sure she had heard correctly, the weight of anticipation in her stomach transformed into butterflies. She felt them eager to escape—she wanted to wrap her friend in a tight embrace, but instead, the excitement floated to her throat, forming a lump there, and prompting the beginnings of tears in her eyes. She sat up and folded her legs to one side so she could ease closer to Narcissa. She faced the girl's profile, and tenderly pulled the curtain of silvery hair behind a pale ear.

"Nuh…" Young Molly wanted to speak, but her throat was too tight to form the sound. She looked down and took a deep breath. "Narcissa," she finally whispered. Molly waited as the vulnerable, pale blue eyes finally met hers. Her tongue quickly dampened her lips. She couldn't say anything else, but slowly, surely, she nodded.

The anxious blue eyes crinkled with sudden relief, then disbelief, and finally beamed with elation. Narcissa's mouth emitted a tiny puff of a laugh which she quickly stifled into a happy, grateful smile. It was the most beautiful expression ever to grace her delicate face, and it lasted only a moment.

Narcissa bit her lower lip. She broke her gaze from Molly's eyes and let it travel with new anticipation to Molly's plush pink mouth. The blonde brought one hand to Molly's cheek, and let her trembling thumb graze over Molly's lips. She brought her other hand to Molly's cheek as well, cupping the redhead's face in her hands. Then, gently, one hand combed through Molly's red hair, and Narcissa slid closer, letting her other hand find the small of Molly's back.

Molly watched and lived these actions simultaneously, recalling the electricity and the tension, so thick and wonderful. Their faces were inches apart. Molly turned her head down slightly to nuzzle Narcissa's arm against her face, and when she did, Narcissa leaned and placed a pure, innocent kiss on Molly's forehead. Molly glanced up, and Narcissa tilted her face back down to Molly's. Slowly they drew closer to one another until at last their eyes broke their longing gaze to close as their lips finally met.

Molly Prewett leaned forward into Narcissa's lips, and Molly Weasley was suddenly hyperaware of her position on the edge of the bed in her room at Grimmauld Place. She drew her own hand upward, letting her fingertips brush against her lips. She closed her eyes and sat for a moment to think and remember.


End file.
